Cocktail
by Menuett
Summary: OneShot. What do you consider an art form? Rating due to brief language.


Disclaimer: still hasn't gone up for auction.

Pairing: GSR (what else… IS there?)

Rating: PG

* * *

She'd perfected it into an art, really. 

One day it was a twist of lime, or a shot of orange juice. The next day followed with a dash of tart, lip-puckering raspberry, and eventually the cycle was concluded with a tangy and rich strawberry finale. She found the citrus flavors actually hid the tell-tale smell most effectively; however, she was always a stickler for the other fruits as well. On a good day, the mixture was exquisite, and went wonderfully with anything, or nothing.

Or at least, that was the lie she told herself to justify it all. It didn't mask the evidence however, and ever the scientist, the investigator, she knew her symptoms all too well, because some days the mixture wasn't needed, and she just drank the vodka straight.

Sara Sidle was well and truly on her way to becoming an alcoholic

It was a mistake she had kept intending to correct, another noted flaw in her worn character. Somehow her "only one more drink" mantra had been tuned out, discarded among the other debris cluttering the back of her mind. She was one of the weak-willed, she supposed, succumbing so easily to drowning her sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Brass had warned her, and she should have stopped while she was still able, weeks ago. It was so easy though, coming home, and making herself forget, this way, forgetting _him_.

Later, the bottle was empty and had been pushed away into a corner, its accusing stare no longer falling on her. Sara slumped down along the cupboards in her small kitchen, her butt heavily hitting the tiled ground. Somewhere, distant and disconnected, her mind whispered that she would probably be bruised later in the evening, but she didn't care. Nothing hurt; not her butt, not her head when it cracked loudly against the cupboard when her head lolled backwards, and especially the fact that she was still alone, drunk, incoherent, _and_ pining over Grissom.

_Fucking Grissom,_ she thought.

Several short, staccato knocks rapped against her apartment door. Any other time, the sharp sound would have put her on alert, as it wasn't very often she got visitors, if ever, excluding the man in 203 that always, somehow, ended up getting half her mail. Sara cracked an eye open in the direction, but couldn't muster the energy to actually get up and moved towards the sound. Instead, she just sat, mind dead and wandering. The knocking came again, slightly louder and longer, followed by something else.

"Sara?"

That voice…

Everything was still muzzy, and even though she tried, she couldn't put a name to the tone, and that sad, single fact brought the tears again. The muffled noise of her door handle being shaken violently grew in her ears, and the knocking came again, the loud bursts of sound beating their way through her stupor.

"Sara, honey, answer the door!"

She mouthed, _I can't_, but her vocal cords wouldn't work. Even that was stolen from her, it appeared. Far off, a huge crack echoed through her apartment, but she paid it no mind. A coherent thought drifted through her brain at that point; what would they say if they could see you now? Sara Sidle, the so-called brilliant criminalist, defeated and broken down into this haphazardly strewn body on the floor. The tears were flowing freely now, continually coursing down her cheeks.

Nick would promise help, and Greg would promise to nurse her through everything, trying to joke the seriousness of it off. Catherine would claim it was inevitable, her break down, and Warrick would sadly shake his head. Grissom would…

"Oh, Sara, what have you done?"

He was there, in front of her. She could feel him, the presence that was so often overbearing and demanding, but still innately him. Slowly, her face turned upwards, and her hazy eyesight vaguely focused on the man in front of her. She opened her mouth, and again, nothing came out. But, as it had always been for them, the words weren't necessary.

Grissom's reddened eyes were overflowing with emotion – anger, compassion, fear, and worry just some of them. There was something else, too, but in her current state, Sara couldn't recognize it. His arms came up around her shoulders, the warm fingers gripping them lightly, as if he was fearful she'd break at any moment. A sober Sara would have cussed him out for treating her that way, but the way she was now, she was in no position to argue.

"Honey, how could you do this to yourself?" he demanded, his voice cracking. His eyes darted over to the discarded empty bottle, and back to her face. He shook her lightly, her shoulders hitting the cupboards with a dull wooden thud.

"Why would you do this?"

Somehow, those words shot through the fuzzy haze, and she forced her eyes to meet his, and for her voice to finally work.

"Only you… would ask why," she croaked out, her weak voice thick with irony. A drunken laugh bubbled up from her stomach, and she began to slip sideways along the cupboards. Grissom had to move quickly to catch her from falling completely onto the hard tiles. They ended up in an awkward mess of tangled limbs, Sara mostly resting on his lap, sobbing silently into his jeans, soaking in his protective warmth. She didn't cry out or make a noise while the tears flowed; only her shoulders shook as she clutched onto his arms, the arms that wrapped around her and held her while she was at her worst.


End file.
